Chapter 5 - THE THIRTY-MINUTE CLOCK
The steel barrel bit deep into the soft skin beneath my jaw.
My breath came in short, jagged gasps.
"He's five years old, Julian," I wept, clawing at his leather glove.
"He has a fever!"
"He can't breathe through his nose!"
"I don't give a damn about his fever," Julian snarled.
On the pavement beneath us, Roman shifted.
He lay on his side in the icy slush.
His left hand was pressed hard against his torn abdomen.
Blood was pooling thick and dark between his fingers.
His eyes looked glassy, semi-conscious.
Julian sneered down at him, kicking Roman's hip with the heavy toe of his boot.
"Look at your savior, Megan."
"Chicago's most feared kingpin dying in his own vomit."
"Get in the car."
Julian shoved me toward the open passenger door of the sedan.
I stumbled against the leather seat, my knees hitting the floorboards.
Behind us, a sharp, metallic clink sounded on the wet asphalt.
Julian spun around.
Roman had not passed out.
He had rolled onto his back.
His right hand came up from beneath his coat.
He held a stubby, double-barreled derringer pistol he had hidden in his boot sleeve.
BANG.
The tiny weapon kicked with a deafening, concussive crack.
The round took Julian clean through the right kneecap.
Julian shrieked, his leg folding beneath him like wet cardboard.
He crashed down against the bumper of his own sedan, his Kimber .45 skittering across the pavement into the gutter.
"RUN, MEGAN!" Roman roared, blood flecking his lips.
"GET TO THE FIRE ESCAPE!"
I didn't think.
I didn't hesitate.
I kicked off my soaked shoes and bolted toward the rusted iron ladder hanging three feet above the trash bins.
Julian was screaming behind me, thrashing in the puddle, reaching for his weapon with bloody fingers.
"SHOOT HER!" Julian shrieked into his radio.
"DROP THE KID!"
I leaped onto the lid of the green dumpster.
My bare feet hit the rusted iron rungs of the ladder.
The metal was freezing, slicing into my skin, but adrenaline burned through the pain.
I scrambled up the fire escape.
Second floor.
Third floor.
Through the window glass, I saw the man in the ski mask.
He had kicked open the lower sash.
He stood on the sill, holding my son over the forty-foot drop into the alley below.
Leo's little face was pale, his eyes fluttering with exhaustion and fever.
"Mama...?" Leo whimpered through the rain.
"PUT HIM DOWN!" I screamed, lunging through the open window frame.
I didn't have a gun.
I didn't have a weapon.
I had the heavy porcelain table lamp I snatched from the nightstand beside the sill.
I swung it with every ounce of maternal fury in my body.
SMASH.
The ceramic base shattered across the intruder's jaw.
The man roared in shock, staggering backward onto the bedroom rug.
His grip slipped.
Leo tumbled from his arms toward the empty air outside the window.
I threw my entire upper body over the sill, my hands clawing through the darkness.
My fingers caught the collar of his dinosaur pajamas.
Fabric stretched.
Tore.
Leo dangled thirty-five feet above the concrete alley, screaming in terror.
"MAMA!"
"I have you, baby!" I cried, my ribs screaming as they crushed against the wooden sill.
"Hold on to my wrist!"
Behind me, the intruder was scrambling back to his feet, blood pouring from his broken nose.
He drew a combat knife from his tactical vest.
"Bitch," he hissed, stepping toward my exposed back.
I couldn't pull Leo up.
I couldn't let go of his pajamas.
I was trapped between my son's life and the knife descending toward my spine.
Then, from the alley below, a thunderous blast shook the brick walls.
BOOM.
A heavy twelve-gauge shotgun slug tore through the bedroom floorboards beneath the intruder's boots.
The floor disintegrated into splinters and pulverized joists.
The intruder fell through the gaping hole, his body crashing down into the dry cleaner's boiler room below.
I hauled Leo through the window frame with a desperate, animal heave.
We tumbled onto the wet bedroom carpet together, gasping for breath.
I wrapped my arms around his trembling body, kissing his burning forehead over and over.
"You're safe, baby. You're safe."
Down in the alley, heavy boot steps climbed the iron fire escape.
Slow.
Heavy.
Dragging.
A massive shadow blocked the window frame.
Standing on the third-floor platform was Viktor, Roman's head of security.
In his left hand, he held a smoking shotgun.
In his right, he carried a brown pharmacy paper bag.
"The amoxicillin, ma'am," Viktor said quietly through the rain.
May you like
"And Mr. Vance needs you downstairs."
"He's flatlining on the pavement."
